


knowing one's place

by fatal_drum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Begging, Bondage, Brainwashing, Captivity, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Desperation, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Seriously Dark, Stockholm Syndrome, The Lonely - Freeform, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, dubcon Jonmartin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 23:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21044870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Martin’s place is no longer at Jon’s side, but at Peter’s feet. Peter can forgive Martin if he’s had trouble understanding that fact. He just needs a bit of guidance.Peter finds a new use for his assistant. What will Jon do to get him back?





	knowing one's place

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features Stockholm syndrome, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and all-around bad decisions. Please mind the tags. 
> 
> Many thanks to [cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth), without whom this story would have been impossible! Aside from saving you guys from numerous typos, Tooth has helped shaped this story in crucial ways, and made it much better. You are my muse. <3

Peter’s found that things go more smoothly when everyone knows their place. His own place is at the helm of the Tundra, directing his crew’s motions from afar. The Institute is not unlike a ship in its running. There’s no sea in which to banish recalcitrant crew, but his patron’s realm will do quite nicely in the interim. 

The Archivist has his own domain several floors below, a maze of towering shelves piled high with testaments to fear. His assistants have each carved out their own small territories. Except for Martin. Martin’s place is no longer at Jon’s side, but at Peter’s feet. Peter can forgive Martin if he’s had trouble understanding that fact. He just needs a bit of guidance. 

It’s been thirty-six hours since Peter provided his last lesson. The memory brings a fond smile to Peter’s lips, makes him adjust himself in his trousers. The more he thinks of it, and the state he left his dear assistant in, the less interest he has in paperwork. 

He supposes it’s been long enough. Martin’s still growing used to his new position, but he should be far more amenable today. 

Setting aside his fountain pen, Peter closes his eyes and allows his patron’s realm to pull him in. It comes to him as naturally as breathing. The change is subtle: a slight coolness to the skin, a fading of color and sound; the world as it should be,  _ will  _ be, if he succeeds in his task. In other words, home. 

Of course, few others share Peter’s appreciation for Forsaken. That’s just as well; someone has to feed his patron’s hunger, after all. 

It doesn’t find long to find the place he’s made for Martin. On the physical plane, it overlaps with Peter’s flat, but it takes just moments to reach from his office. Time also passes differently, and unpredictably, though he doesn’t worry about leaving his assistant to starve. Forsaken won’t let him go so easily. 

Peter’s pleased to see Martin is exactly how he left him. Loneliness rolls off him in waves, rich and intoxicating. He is naked as the day he was born, save the rope harness that suspends him and the silk band covering his eyes. His arms are bound behind his back, his plush thighs spread as far apart as they’ll go, showing off the glass plug Peter left inside him. Every inch of him is available for Peter’s perusal. He smiles, taking a moment to savor the sight, before running a hand up Martin’s inner thigh. 

The effect is immediate: Martin gasps and jerks, seeking more contact. Peter withdraws his hand, satisfied. 

“Did you miss me?”

Martin swallows hard, brow furrowing. “Please let me go,” he whispers. 

Peter feigns concern. “Shall I leave you for another day? Give you some time to clear your head?”

_ “No!”  _ Martin cries, face twisted in anguish. “P-please, don’t!”

“You want me to stay, then?” 

Martin hangs his head, soft curls falling over his face. His lip trembles as he considers his answer, weighs his fear of abandonment against his quaint desire for autonomy. “...yes,” he whispers. 

Peter rewards him with a hand on the small of his back. Martin melts at the touch, sagging into his bonds. Surrender makes him lovelier than ever, the defeated lines of his frame inviting Peter to take more and more. 

“Now you must understand, Martin,” Peter says gently. “I’m a very busy man. I have a whole Institute to run, and your Archivist to keep out of trouble. I can’t just interrupt my schedule without a very good reason, can I?”

Martin flinches visibly at the mention of his Archivist; the poor lad has no poker face to speak of. He licks his lips, considering. 

“Wh-what do you want me to do?”

“You could start by making me feel welcome,” Peter suggests, reaching to cup Martin’s chin. Martin nuzzles his palm gently. When Peter taps his fingers against Martin’s lips, he opens readily, his mouth warm and inviting. He even suckles, sweet as a lamb. Peter’s cock stirs with interest, and he thrusts his fingers deeper, until Martin gags. Even then, Peter doesn’t relent, and Martin does his best to lap and suck even as his throat spasms in protest. 

“Lovely boy,” he murmurs, burying his fingers in Martin’s hair. “You were made for this. I could tell you were a slut from the moment I met you. You just needed a bit of encouragement.”

Martin makes a low sound that might be a sob, but he doesn’t try to deny what they both know. 

“I know that mouth of yours has been empty for too long, sweetheart. Tell me what you need.” Peter removes his fingers, wiping them on Martin’s chin. 

“I…” Martin bites his lip, hesitating. “I want to—to suck you off.” 

“That’s not terribly convincing,” Peter says, taking a step back. Clever boy that he is, Martin takes his cue quickly. 

“Please!” he cries. “I need it. I, it’s all I can think about. Having you in my mouth, tasting you, making you come.  _ Please _ let me have it.”

Peter chuckles, ruffling Martin’s hair. Martin’s dirty talk could use some work, but his sincerity is delightful.

“How could I deny you when you ask so nicely?”

He opens his trousers, taking a moment to give himself a few leisurely strokes, before rubbing his cock against Martin’s cheek. Martin moans, turning to take it into his mouth, but Peter seizes him by the hair, holding him in place. He takes his time tracing the head over Martin’s lips, painting them with precome before sinking into the wet heat of his mouth. 

Martin had been clumsy before, careless with his teeth, but he’s learned what Peter likes and what he won’t tolerate. He sucks gently, tongue caressing the underside, pulling against the grip on his hair in an attempt to get more, until Peter relents, thrusting lazily into his throat. He plants both his hands in Martin’s hair, using him as casually as any other toy, ignoring the soft choking sounds Martin makes. Tears soak his blindfold, flowing down his cheeks and dripping from his chin.

As lovely as Martin’s throat is, he has other holes to train. When Peter feels himself approaching the edge, he pulls out, leaving Martin to cough violently 

“Was it everything you hoped for?” Peter asks, wiping his spit-damp cock on Martin’s face and savoring the shudder that goes through him. 

“Y-yes,” he says in a small voice. “But I need more.” 

Peter strokes the hair from Martin’s face, pets the freckled skin of his cheeks. “What do you need, love?” 

“I need you inside me,” Martin confesses. “I need you to f-fuck me. To...come in me.  _ Please,  _ Peter.”

“That sounds like a lot of work. What’s in it for me?”

For a moment, something like rage flickers across Martin’s face. Peter watches with amusement as Martin suppresses it, schooling his features into the needy pout Peter so enjoys. Peter can forgive the lapse for now. Martin hasn’t realized how badly he needs Peter’s help. The boy is fortunate to have such an understanding teacher. 

_ “Please, _ Peter, I need you so badly! I get so...lonely without you. I need you to fuck me, to fill me up, to  _ use  _ me, I’ll do  _ anything  _ for it, just  _ please  _ don’t leave me alone.” 

The tears are rolling down Martin’s cheeks again, dripping from his chin, and Peter decides he needs to see his eyes. Reaching behind Martin’s head, he unfastens the knot, letting the strip of silk fall to the ground. 

Martin flinches at the light, dim as it is, blinking furiously. His eyes are red-rimmed, tears clumping the thick lashes as he finally looks up at Peter. 

"Beautiful boy," Peter murmurs, crouching down to claim his mouth in a harsh kiss. 

Martin responds beautifully, opening for Peter without hesitation, soft and sweet and needy. The taste of his precome in Martin's mouth sends a rush of vicious satisfaction through him. When he pulls back, Martin tries to follow, and he lets out a small whimper when he realizes he can't.

It won't do to spoil the lad, Peter thinks, moving to stand between Martin’s lush thighs, spread so beautifully by the harness. The black silk is a perfect contrast to his pale, freckled skin. Peter runs his palms over Martin’s buttocks, squeezing firmly, before nudging the tip of the plug. Martin gasps and squirms against his restraints. 

Peter yanks the plug out with a single swift motion, exposing Martin’s gaping hole. He rubs his cock against Martin’s arse in teasing strokes. 

“Your Archivist wouldn’t do this for you, would he?” 

He feels Martin tense against him before he whispers, “...no.” 

“He’s a fool,” Peter assures him, gripping Martin by the hips as he rocks against him. “He never understood your purpose. Do you know what your purpose is, Martin?”

Martin shakes his head mutely. 

“You were made for  _ this,” _ Peter says, pushing against his slick wet hole until he sinks in, stretching him open in one deep thrust. “Being owned. Being used. Being  _ fucked.” _

Martin cries out at being filled so suddenly, a startled sound that goes straight to Peter’s cock. Peter seizes his hips in a bruising grip, pulling out only to slam in even harder. For such a little slut, Martin is incredibly tight around him, his body clutching him greedily. Each thrust brings a little gasp or whimper from his throat, growing louder as Peter seizes him by the hair.

“You tried to hide it, didn’t you?” Peter growls. “Tried to pretend you weren’t a little whore. Why?”

He yanks harder at Martin’s hair, making him sob. 

“I-I’m sorry!” he whimpers. “I was—ashamed—”

“You should be,” Peter tells him, rolling his hips until he finds Martin’s sweet spot. Martin tightens almost painfully around him, moaning loudly. Peter smirks and hits the same spot again. “No one else is going to want you. Not when it’s so  _ obvious _ what a slut you are.” 

Martin’s body begins to stiffen, his orgasm clearly close, when Peter stops abruptly. 

“P-peter!” Martin cries, wriggling uselessly. Peter slaps him on the arse, and he stills, breathing hard. 

“I want you to say it,” Peter demands. “Tell me what a little slut you are, and I’ll let you come.”

Martin whimpers, bowing his head in shame. 

“Or should I stop?” 

“No, please!” Martin cries. “I...I’m a slut.”

“That much is obvious,” Peter quips. 

“I, I need to be owned. I need to be  _ yours.  _ That’s all I’m good for.” Martin’s voice breaks, and he takes a deep, shaking breath. “Please let me be yours.  _ Use _ me. You’re the only one I want.”

Peter pauses, watching Martin twitch nervously. His embarrassment is almost endearing. 

“I suppose that’ll do,” Peter concedes, and shoves back in with a snap of his hips. 

He stops teasing and begins using Martin in earnest, fucking into him with abandon, until the room is filled with the slick sounds of their sex. He shamelessly exploits Martin’s weak spots, over and over again, until Martin stiffens abruptly, clamping down on Peter’s cock as he comes with a high whine. Even then, Peter doesn’t relent, keeping up the same brutal pace. Martin’s breath comes in short little whimpers, too overwhelmed to protest the rough treatment, until Peter finally shoots his load with a low growl, buried deep inside him. 

Peter leans his forehead against Martin’s back, taking a few moments to catch his breath. Martin’s shaking beneath him, but he ignores it. Once Peter’s recovered, he gives Martin a friendly pat on the arse. 

“Good lad,” Peter says, ignoring the yelp Martin makes when he pulls out. He bends to pick up the plug, returning it to its rightful place and sealing in his come. He likes to keep Martin full. 

“Wh-what are you doing?” Martin asks, panic lacing his voice.

“That was lovely, but like I said, I’m a very busy man.” 

Peter smooths out the blindfold, still damp with tears, and secures it over Martin’s eyes. 

“Peter, please! I did everything you wanted!”

“And you got a very good fuck out of it, didn’t you?” Peter says pleasantly. 

“Th-that’s not fair!” Martin cries. 

He continues in a similar vein, but Peter ignores him. This is getting unpleasant. Peter turns to the cabinet by the wall, rummaging around until he finds what he needs. 

Martin’s still begging when Peter shoves the gag into his mouth, securing the ends behind his head. 

“There we go,” Peter says, beaming. “Much better.” 

He spares Martin a fond pat on the rump, then returns to his office, the sound of Martin’s muffled protests echoing nicely in his ears. 

* * *

Peter promised he would teach Martin everything he needed to know. 

Martin just wishes he’d thought to ask what that meant.

Time passes strangely in the Lonely. He feels like he’s been kept there for months, but his beard hasn’t grown in at all. He hasn’t had anything to eat or drink, either; hunger gnaws at him constantly. Nothing changes at all for Martin, except Peter. 

Martin tracks the passing of time by the number of times Peter comes to use him, the stubble on his jaw, the changing of his clothes, though he suspects sometimes Peter comes to him more than once a day. 

The first time Peter touched him, Martin was foolish, lulled into complacency by Peter’s charm. They’d been in Elias’s office, and Peter interrupted Martin’s budget report by leaning in and kissing him. Martin found himself parting his lips, letting Peter explore at his leisure. Martin’s heart raced with excitement, caught in the thrill of being  _ wanted.  _ He moaned into Peter’s mouth, reaching up to stroke the short hairs at the back of his neck. 

Peter growled into his mouth, gripping Martin’s hair and pushing him back against the desk. Even then, Martin wasn’t alarmed. He didn’t protest until Peter went for his belt. 

“P-peter, we can’t—” Martin sputtered, trying to sit up, but Peter pushed him flat against the desk. 

“I’m the head of the Magnus Institute,” Peter said, yanking Martin’s trousers down. “I can do anything I like.”

“Peter, _ stop!”  _ Martin cried, panicked. 

Something hit his face so hard he staggered, momentarily dizzy. It took him a moment to realize Peter had slapped him. Tears welled in his eyes as the reality of his situation sank in. 

Peter’s hand brushed his cheek, and he shushed Martin gently. 

“This will be so much easier for you if you learn you place,” he murmured. 

Then his hand slid down to Martin’s throat, and he squeezed. 

Martin had thought, foolishly, that things like this only happened to girls, or least least attractive people. That at least he was big enough and strong enough to fight someone off. His mind had screamed denials until Peter was actually inside him, and then it didn’t have anything to say at all. Martin had gone empty inside, hollow as a doll. Just a pliant vessel for Peter to use as he pleased. 

The whole time, Peter whispered filthy things in his ear, telling him he was so glad their relationship had progressed, that Martin could finally know his purpose. It was Martin’s fault, Peter told him, for tempting him like a little whore. He took his time listing all the actions that had sealed Martin’s fate, things Martin didn’t even remember doing. Martin sobbed apologies into the mahogany desk until Peter finally lost himself in fucking him, shoving Martin’s face against the polished wood as his thrusts grew less controlled, and he finally came in Martin with a low groan of satisfaction. 

“I’m so glad things are clearer between us,” Peter said afterwards, kissing the back of Martin’s neck. Martin shivered, sticky with sweat and other things. 

Peter took him to the Lonely afterwards. Left him in his empty little room, with nothing but a bed and a cupboard of...implements. Martin doesn’t dare open it on his own, on the rare occasions he could so so; the sight of it sickens him. There are no windows, no personal effects. Just cold, blank walls, and his own fading sanity. 

He spends most of his time bound and blindfolded. Sometimes Peter takes it off when he visits, gracing him with the sight of his face; often, he leaves him blinded. Sometimes Martin’s not even sure it  _ is _ Peter, and the thought fills him with panic, to think of being used by strangers, by monsters, and never even knowing who they were. 

Martin’s not sure how much longer he can last as Peter’s pet, but he doesn’t have a choice. The only door leads to the bathroom, where Peter occasionally washes him by hand. Even if there was a way out, Martin spends most of his time bound and gagged. Hardly ideal for plotting an escape. 

Even if he could, where would he go? He’s bound to the Institute, and Peter is its head. Apparently no one’s even noticed he’s gone. 

Perhaps this really is where he belongs. 

* * *

Jon isn't sure when it happened, but there is a hole in his awareness, a gap where something should be. Once he knows it's there, he can't stop prodding at it, like a missing tooth with a gaping socket. 

No one else seems to notice. Daisy and Basira don't feel it, and the staff outside the archive are oblivious as always. 

Finally he makes the trip to Elias's office. The man he assumes is Peter Lukas fixes him with an appraising stare. 

"You must be Elias's Archivist," Peter says. "He wasn't exaggerating."

"What did you do?" Jon demands.

Peter shivers visibly, tilting his head back in pleasure. "It does tingle, doesn't it?"

"Tell me!" Jon shouts.

"Jon, I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific. As your employer, I do a great  _ number _ of things."

He casts an eye around the room, looking for some sort of evidence, some sign of what Peter's wrought. The office is immaculate.

"Where's Martin? You went to all the trouble of stealing him, why isn't he here?"

Peter smiles, slowly and without warmth. He gives the impression of having far too many teeth.

"I'm afraid Martin's a bit...tied up, right now," he says, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Special project, you know.  _ Very _ sensitive. Would you like me to take a message?"

“No, I wouldn’t,” Jon snaps, nails biting into his palms as he fights for composure. He should have known Peter would be useless, would only use a confrontation to taunt him. It takes everything Jon has to resist the urge to claw the smug expression off his face, regardless of how large Peter looms. 

He’s already turned to leave when Peter interrupts. 

"He really is something, isn't he?” Peter comments. “He needs a stern hand, but he's quite eager to please."

Jon has nothing to say to that. He leaves.

Weeks pass. He questions everyone he meets, but no one’s seen a trace of Martin Blackwood. Rosie’s taken on most of his duties. Jon grows more and more certain that Martin is what he’s missing. If he stretches a bit, he can feel his assistants’ presence in the Institute. But he can’t feel Martin at all. 

“You’re planning something,” Basira says one evening as he’s poring through statements about the Lukas family. 

“I’m always planning something,” he says absently. 

“You know what I mean.”

He sighs. “I suppose I do.”

She fixes him with a long stare. “I’m not going to try to stop you. Just...try not to go in there half-cocked, alright?”

“I...thank you, Basira.” 

He leaves his rib with her, and instructions for if he doesn’t return. Tries not to make it a farewell. Fails. He thinks he knows what he’ll find. 

He has never been more wrong. 

* * *

The first thing Jon notices is the cold. It’s subtle, but the longer he thinks about it, the closer he is to shivering. He still appears to be standing in Artifact Storage, but the light is dimmer, the colors duller, and the room is utterly silent. He is also utterly alone. He can feel the isolation like pressure on his skin. Taking a deep breath, he concentrates, reaching out with his patron’s power. He feels nothing. 

A surge of anger rises in his chest, hot and bitter. This is unacceptable. The Lonely has encroached on his domain, taken what rightfully belongs to _him_, and he will have it back, even if he has to rip through Forsaken with his bare hands. 

Finally something brushes against the edges of his awareness: a flicker of light, a spark of warmth, of all the things he’s come to associate with Martin. It’s far away and dim, but it’s the most hope he’s had in weeks, and it makes his heart race in his chest. 

Taking a deep breath, he starts walking. The Lonely stretches around him for what seems like miles in every direction, but he focuses on the ache in his chest, the steady pull he  _ knows  _ will lead him to Martin. He refuses to consider any other conclusion. 

There’s no way to keep track of time; his wristwatch gives him wildly different answers with each glance. It  _ feels  _ like days that he’s been walking, but that can’t be right. The distance between them scarcely feels like it’s narrowed. Perhaps he’s trapped here forever, destined to walk the same empty space for the rest of his life. Perhaps he’ll stay long enough that even his god abandons him, and whatever power has kept him alive since the Unknowing will drain from his body, leaving an empty husk. He’ll die alone in Lukas’s domain with no one to remember him. 

A cold fury sweeps through his chest. He’s let Forsaken pull his strings, begun feeling what it  _ wants  _ him to feel. But Jon has escaped worse than this, has clawed his way out of the deepest recesses of the Buried, because Martin was waiting for him. He won’t leave Martin here, no matter what the cost. 

Eventually a door appears before him, thick oak carved with elaborate designs: sirens basking on rocky shores; a leviathan with gaping jaws; a ship with a broken mast. The polished silver handle gleams, daring him to discover what awaits. His heart pounds in his chest. 

He has no choice but to open it. 

* * *

Jon spared little thought to how he would find Martin, consumed as he was by the search. Whatever he imagined, he isn’t prepared for the sight that greets him. 

Martin is lying face-down on an enormous four poster bed, the only thing with life or color in the empty room. He’s entirely naked, flushed skin on display, bound with his hands behind his back. His legs are spread obscenely, his ankles tied to opposite bedposts. A rose pink silicone toy protrudes from between his round cheeks. The only parts of him that are covered are his eyes and mouth, with a blindfold and gag in the same shade of pink as the toy. Jon feels his face grow hot. 

He shouldn’t be seeing this, it’s not _ right— _ but he can’t look away. Perhaps it’s the Archivist’s need to know, or else the cold oppression of the Lonely drawing him to the only human connection in sight. He notes each detail automatically. Every part of Martin is lushly curved, from his shoulders to his thighs. His skin is covered with freckles, more than Jon realized he had, countless flecks of color on his fair skin. Martin doesn’t move as Jon stares, doesn’t seem to have heard him enter. A quick glance shows him why: ear plugs in the same color as his restraints. Peter is nothing if not thorough. Finally Jon summons the will to move, to place a tentative hand on Martin’s shoulder. Martin jerks in startlement, making a muffled sound through the gag. 

“S-sorry!” Jon yelps, reaching to untie the gag. 

“—missed you, Peter, please,  _ please _ fuck me—”

Jon pulls back, stricken. It’s several moments before he thinks to remove the blindfold and ear plugs. When he does, Martin’s eyes are wide and horrified, gleaming with unshed tears as he looks up at Jon.

“J-jon?” he asks quietly, sounding as if he’s not really sure. 

“I’m here,” Jon says, squeezing his shoulder. His skin is warm under Jon’s hand, a balm after so many hours of cold. 

“You shouldn’t be,” Martin says, tears spilling down his cheeks. 

“Wh-why?” 

Jon feels his blood run cold as Martin answers, “Because I belong here.”

“Why would you—?” Jon stops himself, realizing Martin’s still bound to the bed. “Hold on. Let’s at least get you untied.”

The ropes are only moderately difficult to unknot. Martin stretches his arms and legs with a sigh, then rolls over—or tries to, before something makes him gasp. The plug, Jon realizes, feeling his face flush even hotter. After a moment, Martin visibly braces himself, then rolls himself upright, sitting on his heels and breathing hard. Jon untucks the blanket from the edges of the bed, draping it carefully around Martin’s shoulders. 

“I’m so sorry,” Jon says. “If I had known—I didn’t  _ realize—” _

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Martin says quietly. 

“Yes, there is! I should’ve— _ known!” _

“It wouldn’t have mattered if you did,” Martin says with a small, sad smile. “Now please, Jon. Go home, before you get me in trouble.”

“I—I’m not leaving you here!” Jon says, grabbing Martin by the arm. His heart breaks when Martin flinches away, retreating deeper into the blanket. 

“It’s alright, Martin,” Jon says softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

To Jon’s horror, his words seem to frighten Martin even more, and a fine tremor wracks his frame. He  _ knows, _ somehow, that Martin has been here a very long time. Long enough that he can no longer make sense of a world where someone isn’t hurting him. In that moment, Jon’s not sure who he hates more, himself or Peter Lukas. He suspects he has more than enough capacity to hate them both. 

“You have to come with me,” he urges. “We can take you home. Everyone will be so happy to see you.”

Martin pulls the blanket tighter around himself. “You don’t understand,” he says. “This is where I belong.” 

_ “Why?”  _ Jon asks helplessly. He regrets the question as soon as it leaves his lips, watching compulsion shiver across Martin’s face.

“Because I belong to Peter, and he wants me here.”

His voice is completely toneless. It’s the truth, or at least what Martin perceives as truth, and every part of Jon screams  _ wrong  _ at the thought, panic rising in his chest. 

“You don’t belong here!” Jon insists. “You belong with  _ me!” _

Jon stops, horrified. It’s the worst thing he could possibly say. He opens his mouth to apologize, but something in Martin’s expression makes him pause.

For the first time since Jon arrived, Martin is looking at him with something like hope. 

“Y-yours?” Martin asks, biting his lip. 

Jon could argue, could try to convince him he doesn’t belong to  _ anyone,  _ much less a man like Peter. He could try push past his trauma, to undo the layers of conditioning...or he could indulge him, just a bit. It’s harmless enough, and Jon can correct the misunderstanding later, when Martin is clothed and safe and out of Peter’s domain. 

“Yes,” Jon agrees, reaching down to take Martin’s hand in his.  _ “Mine. _ I missed you, Martin.” 

“B-but—Peter—”

“Was lying to you. You don’t have to do those things anymore. You’ll be safe.”

Martin pulls back like he’s been burned, and Jon realizes he’s made a mistake. 

“This is—a trick, or a test, or something!” Martin accuses, retreating until his back his pressed against the headboard.

“Martin,” Jon says carefully. “How long have you been here?”

“I...I don’t know,” Martin answers, his voice breaking. “Nothing  _ changes _ in here. It feels like...months. Years, maybe. Or like it’s always been this way.”

Bile rises in Jon’s throat.  _ Months.  _ It could be disorientation, a lack of sunlight combined with the tedium of an empty room...but Jon’s read enough statements to know time can be malleable in the hands of an Entity. They may never know how long Martin spent in Peter’s hands, with Jon utterly oblivious. What use is his power if he can’t use it to protect those he cares about? 

He swallows. There’s no way for him to change what happened to Martin, but he can stop it from happening again. _Will _stop it, no matter the cost. He’s not strong enough to simply carry Martin away—he’s fairly sure any attempts to force Martin will only hurt him, and Jon won’t risk that. 

The only tool he has left is his voice. He can only hope it serves him. 

“Please, help me understand,” Jon pleads. “You... _ belong _ to Peter. Is that correct?”

“Y-yes,” Martin says, eyeing him warily. 

“Would you…” Jon pauses, licking his lips nervously. “Would you rather belong to—me?”

Martin darts a quick glance around the room, as if Peter could be lurking in the corner. His voice is soft as he says, “Yes…”

“So you want me to...to own you. The way he does.”

_ “Yes,” _ Martin says without hesitation. “Please, Jon…”

“Come here,” Jon says, and suddenly Martin is in his lap, trembling, with his face buried in the crook of his neck and the blanket forgotten beside them. Jon is incredibly conscious of every inch of Martin’s skin, can feel his warmth through his clothing. He buries his face in Martin’s hair, and it feels so good he could weep, having Martin safe in his arms. It drives away some of the chill of the Lonely, though he can feel it pressing in around them.

“H-he told me you weren’t coming,” Martin says quietly, gripping Jon’s shirt in his hands. “He said you didn’t care.”

“I care for you a great deal,” Jon whispers. He wants to say more, but it feels wrong, in this place where Martin has been tortured and twisted. He doesn’t want to warp Martin’s concept of affection any further than Peter already has. 

“You do?” Martin asks, risking a glance up at Jon. 

“I do,” Jon murmurs.

Martin gives him a look of such affection that Jon’s breath catches in his throat.

“Please, Jon,” he says, leaning close. “I want...”

Martin’s gaze drifts to his mouth, and Jon realizes he is faced with a choice. He can say no, and risk pushing Martin away—or he can reassure him, just a bit. It seems like such a small price for Martin’s comfort.

Cupping Martin’s chin, Jon leans down to claim his lips. For a moment, Martin is utterly still, as if he doesn’t know what to do. Jon runs a gentle hand through his hair, and finally Martin sighs into his mouth, relaxing against him. Martin’s mouth is incredibly soft, and he opens sweetly for Jon, letting him explore at his own pace. When Jon finally pulls back, Martin’s eyes are fixed on his, full of longing and devotion he doesn’t deserve. 

“Jon…” Martin whispers, and it’s half question, half plea. 

“What is it?” Jon asks gently. 

“I want...I want you to touch me. Please, Jon…”

Jon stares into Martin’s eyes, considering. His expression is so open and vulnerable, his brow knit with worry that Jon might refuse, might break the only real connection he’s had since he was taken to this cold and empty place. Jon knows what Martin’s asking of him. Knows that Martin has grown so accustomed to cruelty that he can no longer accept kindness without reprisal. That he intends to pay with the only coin he has. 

“Are—are you sure?” Jon asks. “We don’t have to—”

Martin bites his lip, brow furrowed. “Unless you don’t...want me.”

Martin’s eyes are already growing distant, and Jon curses himself. He can’t risk losing Martin, not with the Lonely waiting to claim them both. What he’s considering is reprehensible, but—perhaps it’s worth it, if it will convince Martin to leave. Martin will hate him afterwards, but at least he’ll be  _ safe.  _

“Of course I want you,” Jon murmurs. He leans down to kiss Martin again, pushing him to lie back against the pillows. This time Martin kisses him back immediately, welcoming Jon into his mouth with a low moan. Jon never knew kissing could feel so good. He tangles one hand in Martin’s curls, letting the other stroke the skin of his chest. Martin gasps when Jon brushes against his nipple. 

“Does—does that feel good?” Jon asks, rubbing it with his thumb. 

Martin bites his lip hard, and Jon feels the little pink bud stiffen. Is it more forgivable, if Jon makes this feel good? Or will it be another reason for Martin to hate him? Now, however, Martin’s arching into his touch, and Jon can’t resist leaning down and sucking gently. Martin grips his hair, making a distressed sound. 

“You shouldn’t,” Martin says nervously. 

“Why not?” Jon asks, pulling back. 

“H-he’ll be angry.” Martin keeps his voice low, as if he could summon Peter by speaking too loudly. 

The thought of Peter interfering makes Jon’s blood boil. For a brief moment, he can see Martin wilting in the face of his anger. Jon pushes it down as quickly as he can, feeling sick. 

“I won’t let him hurt you,” he promises. Martin doesn’t look convinced, so he adds, “You’re  _ mine.  _ He doesn’t get to punish you anymore.”

Martin relaxes against the pillow, though he worries at his lip with his teeth. Jon leans up to kiss the frown off his face. Martin’s body is soft and warm under his, perfect and smooth, with a dusting of reddish-gold hair that catches the light. 

“Do you...is there anything else you want?” Jon asks, brushing a lock of hair from Martin’s face. 

“L-lower,” Martin pants. “Please, Jon…”

Jon strokes a hand down Martin’s chest, then further, until he grasps his cock. Martin gasps, hips bucking against his hand as Jon coaxes him into hardness. If Jon’s movements are a bit clumsy, Martin doesn’t seem to notice. Jon drinks in the sight of him, greedily: the flushed cheeks, the kiss-swollen lips; the eyes half-closed with pleasure. He’s so sensitive, so earnest; Jon’s never felt so much power over another person. 

“Jon, Jon…” Martin moans, tilting his hips up so Jon can see the tip of the plug between his cheeks. Jon trails his fingers lower, between Martin’s splayed legs, until he feels the firm silicone. 

Martin whimpers and spreads his legs further. “Please, Jon…”

“What do you want?” Jon asks, pushing gently on the plug. “I need you to tell me.”

Martin’s breath hitches as the compulsion hits, and he arches his back. “I want you inside me,” he begs. “I need it so badly,  _ please…” _

The words make Jon’s thoughts stutter to a halt, and the only word he can manage is a moaned, “Yes…”

Jon works the plug out carefully, tossing it aside, before tracing his fingers over Martin’s slick hole. He sinks two fingers in easily, though Martin clenches hot and tight around them. Martin whimpers, biting into his lip. 

“Too much?”

“N-no,” Martin pants. “I need—more…” 

Jon slips a third finger inside, and Martin moves to meet him, forcing him deeper. The look on Martin’s face is sheer relief, his lips parted in gratitude, eyes hazy and unfocused. It does something to assuage Jon’s guilt a bit, to think Martin derives some satisfaction from the act. Jon could even mistake it for affection, could allow himself to imagine that the feelings threatening to burst through his chest are the same as what Martin feels, but it’s a foolish thought. 

Martin’s gaze has drifted downward, settling on Jon’s crotch, and he licks his lips in a way that makes Jon shiver. 

“C-can I—? I want…”

“Anything,” Jon tells him. “You can have anything you want.”

Martin wastes no time getting into position, lying on his belly between Jon’s splayed thighs. He opens Jon’s trousers with practiced ease. The air is cool on his bare cock, but Martin’s hands are warm. He doesn’t seem to mind that Jon isn’t hard. Jon rarely gets hard without effort anyway. He nuzzles Jon’s cock with his smooth cheek before turning to drop kisses along the shaft, sweet little licks that make Jon’s toes curl inside his shoes. Finally he makes his way to the head and slowly takes it into his mouth. Jon’s hands go instinctively to Martin’s hair, tangling in the soft curls, and Martin moans around his cock. Jon feels himself begin to harden in Martin’s mouth. 

Martin’s head bobs as he sucks gently, tongue tracing patterns that send sparks shooting through Jon’s body, make him grip Martin’s hair too tightly, but Martin doesn’t seem to mind, sucking Jon with a single-minded focus, worshipping him with his lips and tongue. His hands stroke Jon’s thighs as he works.

“Oh—god, Martin…” 

Martin does something particularly clever with his tongue, and Jon’s hips surge forward instinctively, pushing him into Martin’s throat. He stammers an apology, tries to pull back, but Martin swallows around him, pulling him even deeper, until his lips brush against Jon’s pelvis. He looks up at Jon for approval, and his eyes are so full of  _ want _ that Jon nearly shatters. 

Martin pulls back with a wet sound. 

“I need you to fuck me,” he says, licking his lips. “Please, Jon…” 

Jon pulls him up for a kiss, and Martin falls back against the pillows, taking Jon with him. Jon’s cock slips between Martin’s cheeks, and Martin spreads his thighs, urging him closer. 

“Are—you sure?” Jon asks, desperately searching Martin’s face for signs of hesitation. “I—I need you to be sure…”

“Yes, Jon, _ please—” _

Jon pushes forward, nudging the tight ring of muscle before it gives way, and he sinks in to the hilt. Martin’s body grips him like a vise, so warm and so perfectly wet, and Jon can’t help but thrust into him again, and again. Martin moans and lifts his hips with each thrust, rising to meet him, forcing him as deep as he’ll go. His cock rubs against Jon’s belly with each thrust, leaving wet smears on his shirt. Jon reaches between them and grips it in his hand, stroking in time with his thrusts. Martin makes a wounded sound, clenching tight around him.

“H-harder—” Martin begs, and Jon can’t deny him, could never deny him. He slams in as hard as he can, making Martin cry out and filling the room with the sound of skin slapping against skin, an inexorable rhythm that pulls them closer and closer to the edge. Jon refuses to fall alone; he aims his thrusts just  _ so,  _ until Martin’s breath comes in short gasps, his whole body tensing, gripping Jon with his arms and thighs. 

“Come for me,” Jon urges, and that’s all it takes for Martin to break, tightening abruptly around him with a low whine, spilling over Jon’s fingers. The sound cuts through him, spurs him on until his own release catches him, buried deep in Martin’s body. 

Afterwards he collapses against Martin, head pillowed on his chest. He can hear Martin’s heartbeat, can feel his chest rise and fall with each breath. The rhythm is soothing enough that he can almost forget where they are. He kisses the sweat-damp skin beneath him, noticing an odd hitch in Martin’s breath that makes him glance up. 

His heart sinks. Martin is weeping silently, eyes squeezed shut. His teeth are buried in his lip, leaving deep indents in the flesh as the tears roll down his face. 

“Martin—I—I’m so sorry—what’s wrong?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Martin says quietly. “This was so nice, I can’t take it…”

“Why would I leave?” Jon asks, wiping Martin’s cheek with his thumb. 

Martin leans into the touch, nuzzling his hand. “Because that’s what always happens.”

“Not with me.” 

Jon isn’t used to comfort, but it seems right to kiss Martin, to wipe away his tears, to whisper reassurances in his ear until he stops shaking. Martin grips Jon’s shirt with both hands. 

“I’ll never leave you alone,” Jon promises. “I’ll make sure someone’s always with you. I’ll keep you safe.” 

Gradually, Martin’s grip loosens, and Jon manages to put his clothing to rights, and wrap Martin in the sheet. His shirt is ruined, so he uses it to wipe the come from Martin’s skin, then balls it up and shoves it under the bed. His undershirt, at least, is serviceable. 

“We’re going home,” Jon tells Martin, gripping his hand. “I need you to think of everyone you care for. Everyone who cares for you.”

“No one cares for me,” Martin says, in the same tone he’d use to discuss the weather. The skies are clear and Martin is alone.

_ “I  _ care,” Jon insists.

Martin’s face falls. “You don’t have to pretend, Jon.”

Jon pulls him into a tight embrace, burying his face in Martin’s hair.

“Martin, I’ve  _ always _ cared about you. At first, because we’ve survived so much together, but lately...since I woke up…” He swallows hard. “I can’t stop thinking about you. How I missed the sound of your voice. Your laughter, the little frown you get when you’re thinking...Even your lectures about spiders.”

“Jon…” Martin whispers.

“So come home with me,” he urges. “Let me keep you safe.”

“You don’t have to ask, Jon. I’m yours.” Martin says, then bites his lip. “Aren’t I?”

Jon fights the urge to to flinch. “I—I’ll never let Peter hurt you again,” he promises, and that seems to satisfy Martin well enough.

There’s no sign of Martin’s clothing, but Jon wraps him in the mercifully clean blanket, helping him rise from the bed. Martin watches him with soft and trusting eyes. That will change soon enough, but it’s worth it. It has to be. 

Taking Martin’s hand, he begins the journey home. He can still feel the chill of the Lonely around them, but Martin’s presence by his side is enough to keep it at bay. With each step, he can feel the Institute growing closer, and Martin’s fingers tighten around his. 

Their arrival at the Institute is sudden and jarring. One moment, they’re walking the empty plains of the Lonely; the next, they’re standing in the Archives. Martin’s eyes widen, and he takes a step closer to Jon.

“Jon!” Basira cries, standing to greet them. “You made it!”

“Martin!” Melanie grins, approaching with open arms. 

Martin cringes away from them both, burying his face in Jon’s neck and clinging tightly. Jon’s arms come around him reflexively.

“I—I think Martin needs some time to...adjust,” Jon says, stroking Martin’s hair. Martin curls even tighter around him. “He’s...hard a hard time of it.”

Daisy’s eyes darken as she looks them both over, lingering on Martin’s bare legs. 

“There’s a cot in Document Storage,” she says quietly. “I can bring you some clothes, and supplies. I’m sure you could use some privacy.”

Jon shoots her a grateful look, and Daisy wanders off in search of said supplies. Martin lets him lead him to the cot, lets him drape another blanket over the first, as if he could heal him through sheer force of caring. He tenses when Daisy comes with tea, but she leaves it by the door, along with a box that turns out to contain a first aid kit and a set of clothes. 

Martin takes the teacup with shaking hands, then starts sobbing uncontrollably, hunched over. Jon wraps an arm around his shoulders, comforting him as best he can. 

“You’re safe now,” Jon whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Eventually they find themselves lying on their sides, with Martin wedged snugly between Jon and the wall. He buries his face in Jon’s chest, breathing shakily as Jon runs a gentle hand down his spine, and tries to convince himself he’s done the right thing. 


End file.
